


Destroyed Dreams

by skatty



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Norman is a horrible parent, Poor Harry, some parental abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatty/pseuds/skatty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry always was an artist, a dreamer until he wasn't.</p><p>Thanks to the Father of the year: Norman Osborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destroyed Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> After rewatching all three Spiderman movies, I've noticed, that Harry painted something. And then this happened. Also I wanted to write something about Harry and his Dad.

Harry Osborn **was a happy man**. He had **everything** and he didn’t miss a single thing.

He had a family, he had his father, he had his best friend Peter and of course he had tons of money. He could buy everything he ever wanted and dreamed of.  
Wasn’t that what caused happiness? – Of course it was.

 

So today was a good day and Harry just couldn’t stop smiling. Maybe it was because it was Saturday and he finally could sleep til 9 am. Sleeping was one of the things he enjoyed the most. But his Dad didn’t want him to sleep the whole day, so his Butler Bernhard woke him up at 9 am.

 

After having breakfast he called his best friend Peter Parker.

“Hey, Pete.” Harry said.

“Hey Harry.” His best friend replied and Harry just had to smile, started to throw an apple in the air but failed to catch it again.

“uhm … Peter, I was wondering if you maybe want to come along and watch some movies?” 

“Sure.” Peter would say and after some small talk the boys would hang up.

 

Harry would start to smile even brighter by then. At some point his father would come into the kitchen, to say goodbye, because he would have to work the rest of the day again.

There wouldn’t be a hug. There wouldn’t be anything near comfort.

“I need to get to work. Here, buy some food if you are hungry and geez, Harry put that apple back on the counter.” That would be all what Norman had to say. He would give Harry somewhat over 2000$ for the day and then he would leave the kitchen.

 

2000$ should be enough for Peter and him. He didn’t tell his father about his afternoon plans, why should he? His Dad was just working so hard, there was no time for chatting about childish teen plans.

 

By now Harry started to paint again. He was waiting for Peter anyway, and while waiting he enjoyed doing something to relax a little bit.   
He fell in love with art. At first he went to museums and looked at paintings from different years and painters. He started to read a lot as well. He read about artists who had a terrible life and got all the money right after they died. But Harry wasn’t thinking about doing art for living, because he already had the money.

So why not? There was no problem with becoming an artist at all.

 

So he started to paint. First he would just paint things that lay around in his house, then he tried landscapes, he started to learn about all the different ways to paint and between Van Gogh and realistic paintings he would just lose himself to his own way to paint.  
Maybe in thousand years someone would actually try to paint like Harold Osborn?

Harry enjoyed thinking about that. Most people thought about the future like it was tomorrow, but tomorrow was far to close for Harry. He enjoyed thinking about other and different generations. What would be in hundred years? Would anyone barely remember him? Well maybe they would remember his father, the head and founder of Oscorp.

But would anyone know that Norman Osborn had a son?

And besides that Harry wouldn’t want to be remembered as the son of Norman Osborn. He actually didn’t want to be an Osborn anyway. So why not doing something remarkable? In thousand years, someone would find this painting and knowing: That is the work of Harry Osborn.

 

Okay, maybe those thoughts were a bit unrealistic, Harry knew that too well. But why not being unrealistic? This world is so serious, too serious.

He could escape the world in his paintings. He started to run away as soon as he started to paint.

 

“Sir?” the soft voice of Bernhard kept Harrys attention.  
“Yes, what is it, Bernhard?” the young man laid down his brush and walked towards the butler.

“Peter is on the line.” He handed him the telephone, bowed down and left the living room.

“Pete?” Harry said as soon as Bernhard had left.

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I  … eh … have to cancel our movie afternoon today …”

Harry sighed deeply and begged this would just be a terrible dream.

“Why this time, Pete?” he started to sound annoyed but he didn’t even care to hide it. This was the third time in this week that Peter had cancelled appointments with him.

“I just remembered –“

“You just remembered what? That you have to help your aunt with the thing? You know the thing that needed your help the last 30 times?”

“Harry …” Peters was hurt. Of course he was and Harry hated himself for a second.

“I’m sorry, Peter. It’s okay. We just eh … meet up on Monday in school, okay?”

“It’s important Harry. I’m sorry, but … I have to hang up now. See you on Monday.”

What is more important than a best friend?

“Yes. See you on Monday.”

He hung up.

He threw the phone across the room.

The phone hit the flatscreen.

The flatscreen hit the ground and so did Harrys mood.

So he ran. So he escaped and the next painting was full of anger, disappointment and fear, that he actually had the feeling that he couldn’t even escape anymore.

 

Not long after he started to paint the ball of anger and frustration, his dad came home. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe Bernhard told him that his son finally went mad. Whatever the reason was, he should have stayed at work, because what he saw wasn’t what he had expected to find.

 

Norman always knew, his son was a bit different than himself. He would like to say, that his son would be more like his mother but not even that was the case. It was like Harry wasn’t his son, because he barely knew him. He never found something in Harry that remembered him of himself or his beloved and deceased wife.

But he was his son. Norman paid some scientists to run a test and the result was clear.

 

Anyway the living room seemed like a mess. There was a painting in the middle but the case was, that not all of the colour did find a way on the canvas. Most of the colours were just on the ground around the actual painting and his flatscreen lay on the ground. Next to the flatscreen was the telephone. And in all the mess, was his son who was the only thing that was not covered in black and blue and green colours.

“Care for an explanation?” he asked.

  
Harry shrugged and turned around, fixing his father with his eyes.

“Dad?” he asked and was surprised. He thought his father wouldn’t be home until 8pm or later.

“Is that what you are doing while I’m away? Crashing our house and painting nonsense?”

Harry stayed quiet.

“I’m talking to you, son. Would you please explain your behaviour?”

“Peter called and –“

“And what? Told you to ruin our living room? I don’t care for what Peter is doing right now. I want to know why my living room looks like the shelter of a poor artist who makes his money with the pity of other people.”

“I painted and then I turned angry and –“

“And what? … Oh god Harry. Don’t tell me you are doing something like expressing your teenage feels throughout crap like this.” He pointed to the painting next to Harry.

“It’s not … It’s not crap dad.”

“Oh it’s not? Because all I see in this room is crap. Why don’t you just sit down and learn? Why can’t you be more like your friend Peter? Quiet, nice and smart. But no, I have to deal with an immature child who tries to be what? Van Gogh? While you could be learning, Harry!” Norman turned angry at this point. He always tried to give Harry everything he needed. He always bought him the newest things and still, his son did never what was expected of him.

 

He walked towards his son, grabbed the painting and took the brush from Harrys Hands, but the young man just pulled away and hold on to his brush.

“You can’t take that away from me, Dad! Maybe you say it’s crap but it means something to me!” he yelled at his father in rage.

“Just because you are so old and just because you have no idea how to care for a child or a wife or anything living you don’t have to destroy everything that means something to me and I –“  

Norman stopped Harrys yelling with a slap and right in the moment Harry looked Norman in the eyes, he slapped him again.

“Stop talking to me this way. I am your father and you have no right to say things like that or even pull your mother in this.”

Then he took the brush away from Harry. This time Harry didn’t pull away, this time he said nothing.

“You are an Osborn Harry and if you like it or not, you’re going to take over Oscorp someday. Until then you have so much to learn. Let’s start with math, boy. Your last test was a shame. It’s not that I don’t allow you to paint your stuff, but first you should finally grow up, Harry.   
Outside, in the real world, there is no space for a dreamer. Get your head out of the clouds.”

 

After his father left Harry grew so much angrier. What was he thinking? His father was right all along. He was a dreamer and he should get his head out of the clouds.

 

That was the last day in a very long time that Harry had painted something.

And that was also the day were he learned a very important lesson.

 

He was **not a happy man** and he had **nothing.**


End file.
